And Darkness Fell
by RainyDays-and-DayDreams
Summary: Eighteen months. That's how long it's been since Sherlock left. Since John gave up on life. Still, Sherlock isn't expecting it when he gets the call saying that his blogger is gone... Rated T for suicide mentions, and major character death. Hints of implied Johnlock. "And darkness fell on Sherlock Holmes, and it would never again leave."


_**a/n: Why, hello, lovelies! Inspiration struck last night. I will be the first to admit I am less than thrilled with this, but everyone who's seen it so far says it's really good and/or it made them cry, so I figured, "Eh, fuck it." I'm going to update my other stories soon, so please be patient. :) Reviews are to me what cake and Lestrade are to Mycroft, so please review/favorite! I love you all, and have a wonderful day! **_

_**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing... nothing... *sobs***_

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Sherlock Holmes slowly lays back, letting his body relax. Eighteen months, he thinks. That's how long it's been since he's been in London, since the whole disaster with Moriarty… since he's seen John. A flicker of pain travels through his stomach at the thought of his best friend. _Sentiment,_ he thinks, and he knows it's true. He tried to deny it at first, when he realized his growing feelings for his flatmate. But their forced separation has forced Sherlock to acknowledge that yes, he does care for John Watson. More than as just friends. But he also realized he could never tell the doctor this. So he continued with his mission, trying to take down Moriarty's network, in the hopes that one day he could return home to his blogger.

Suddenly, a sharp pain rips through him. He gasps aloud, back arching in a futile attempt by his body to lessen the pain. _I haven't been drugged,_ he thinks. He looks at himself as well as he can through his pain. _I haven't been shot either. _Suddenly, as quickly as it came, the pain is gone. _What the hell?_ He thinks. Then it hits him. _John._ A small flare of panic fires within him. He doesn't know how he knows John is in danger, he just does. _Something's happened to John,_ he thinks, and he jumps up and picks up his phone to dial the number he knows he needs to dial, when he sees it's already ringing. "Hello?" he asks, voice shaking slightly with worry.

"Good evening, brother," the ever-calm voice of Mycroft Holmes says. Sherlock snaps. He knows there's something wrong, there must be. Mycroft doesn't call unless the situation is urgent. "What is it, brother _dear,_" he sneers into the phone. "Let's skip the pleasantries, shall we, and you can tell me _exactly_ what's happened to John." There's silence on the other line for a moment. Then a sigh. "Sherlock, I.."

"No, Mycroft," Sherlock seethes. "Spit it out. Tell me what's happened _right now._" There's a dangerous edge to his voice, and Sherlock is aware it's there. He doesn't care. He can feel panic growing inside of him, taking control of his thoughts. Then he stops moving. Stops breathing, stops thinking, stops everything. Because he has heard a noise from the other side of the line, and it's nothing he ever want to hear again. Because Mycroft has just sighed again, but it's not a sigh of exhaustion or exasperation- no, it's a sound of grief, and defeat, and altogether everything that shouldn't be coming out of his brother's mouth. Sherlock's stomach turns to ice. He feels his vision begin to tunnel. "What is it, Mycroft?" he whispers, all traces of the hard tone that was in his voice just a few moments ago gone.

And then Mycroft does it. He drops the words that shatter Sherlock's world, his heart, his everything into a million crystalline shards.

"Sherlock, John's dead."

Sherlock doesn't process this at first. John Watson, his blogger, dead? No, that can't be. Not steady, loyal, kind, always-there-for-him John. But then the realization hits, and Sherlock sinks into a nearby chair, feeling his body go numb. "H-how?" he gets out. He's not sure he can say anything more. Mycroft speaks again, and Sherlock can detect a hint of grief in his voice. "He shot himself, Sherlock. He's been becoming more and more depressed for months, and now…" Mycroft lets his sentence trail off. Sherlock hears what he doesn't say- that it's Sherlock's fault, that if he had just managed to find a way to tell John he was still alive, then maybe John wouldn't have killed himself. Sherlock struggles to contain an outpouring of emotion he knows is inevitable. And then rage fills him- Mycroft had surveillance on John, he had to have known that he would do this, he had to- and then Sherlock speaks. "How did you not know, Mycroft?" is all he trusts himself to say. What he wants to say is something so primal, so insanely archaic and ancient he doesn't think any languages have words to describe what he is feeling. He would most likely just end up screaming. So he sits, and says that, to keep the monster of grief trapped inside him for a bit longer.

Mycroft can tell though. Sherlock's change in tone was almost imperceptible, but Mycroft knows his brother well enough to hear the dark undercurrents that lurk beneath the seemingly innocent words. He feels himself shudder, if only for a moment. "We did," Mycroft began slowly, "but he did it so quickly we had no time to react. He had been typing for a while, and we had no idea. Then he grabbed his gun, and it was over." Sherlock hears a silent gulp on the other line. "It appears as if he was writing a note to you, and everyone. We looked. All yours said was, 'I'm coming.'" Sherlock stills. He still can't believe it fully. John… dead. "Thank you, Mycroft," he whispers, forgetting to be angry, and he lays back into the chair.

He doesn't know how long he sits there. It could be hours, minutes, or even days. All Sherlock knows is that when he rises, night has long since fallen. He slowly, robotically, gets up and slips into his dressing gown. He silently glides over to where his bag is. That's when he remembers. He's in a cheap motel, somewhere in Russia. More than two thousand kilometers away from Baker Street, from what was once home, but now lacks a key component. John. It's then that Sherlock feels the dams break. Tears from his eyes, a near-nonstop waterfall, a cascade of all that he wanted to say but couldn't, all the memories he'd once shared but no longer did, and the emotions that had been stewing in him. He reaches into the bag and finds what he's looking for- John's favorite oatmeal-coloured jumper. He'd taken it when he first left, and now he held it to his face as he sobbed.

He slowly stumbled onto the bed, and he held the jumper as if it was John. As if he let it go, John would really, truly be gone. Because as long as he held that jumper, Sherlock could almost pretend that John was still alive, that he hadn't shot himself in the head in a horribly misguided attempt to be with him.

Sherlock cried and cried. Because now he was truly alone, and he would never be whole again. When he passed out from exhaustion, he found himself wishing to not wake up again.

And darkness fell on Sherlock Holmes, and it would never again leave.


End file.
